


Blood of My Blood

by alchamess



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Almost Parents AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-03-07 09:57:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18870895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alchamess/pseuds/alchamess
Summary: The truth about seeing yourself is that you can be reflected in more than just mirrors.A certain Misters Caleb and Mollymauk learn that lessons and love can come in small packages. Sometimes, they’re roughly the size of a nine year-old.





	1. PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

> hello! this is my first widomauk fic of two (planned, i would like to do more). i hope you enjoy the story <3
> 
> please note that this chapter is roughly compliant with canon episodes 1-3, and all the new content will come next.
> 
> big thanks to all my friends who volunteered to beta for me when i asked!

A successful carnival barker is only ever tasked with two things. The first is to be seen by people, which means that Mollymauk was made for the role.

“I love small towns,” he murmurs to Yasha as they frolic into Trostenwald.  Well, Molly frolics --Yasha plods along in time. The town itself has been awake but an hour, which means that its eyes are fresh enough to stare at the pair as they pull a stack of papers from Yasha’s sack. Molly can see curious faces peeking out through windows and from behind doors.

“You just love shocking people,” she says, dry humor coloring her otherwise placid expression. “It’s always easy for you to get looks from simple folk.”

“Yes, and more importantly, they’re always the most willing to look twice- _ah!_ ”

Molly catches the eye of someone who stares just a moment too long. Solidly, he reaches out and claps a hand on the stranger’s shoulder. “Sir, you look like a hard-working man more than deserving of a bit of respite and revelry. Five copper to see a show so unthinkable that you couldn’t even dream it up? A magical event that the Soltryce Academy, Rexxentrum’s own powerhouse of enchantment, would revel in.”

“Uh-” The halfling man Molly has pulled aside looks between him and Yasha, stunned to silence. Passersby stop and whisper at the sight. And why shouldn’t they? The chance that these people have never left the southern region of Wildemount, let alone their village, is miserably low; a tiefling is undeniably out of their wheelhouse.

And a gaudy, lavender tiefling enrobed in clashing silks and shining baubles strutting about their little brick-and-mortar farming town? Well, he hasn’t sent anyone into cardiac arrest yet, but watching an old woman faint on sight was terribly funny.

“Don’t worry, we don’t bite. Unless you climb into the ring!” Molly’s laugh rings out. “Then, we make no guarantees. Yasha, give this gentleman a flyer. In fact, give all the lovely people here one!” Molly whips around, teeth gleaming as he pulls his mouth into a huge smile. “Consider this a personal invitation to the show of not one, but several lifetimes!”

Yasha hands out flyers silently as Molly pulls out his tarot deck. He does fun card tricks for passing children and young women all the way up to the tavern.

The second task of a carnival barker is to see people, preferably people with coin, and to see that their needs, big or small, _clearly_ can be met at the circus.

And that’s why, as he steps into the Nestled Nook Inn, Molly practically beelines for an excitable blue tiefling woman and her table of motley companions sitting the back corner. Sure, he bounces between patrons for a moment, but he knows an easy sell when he sees one.

“Well,” he opens as he finally sidles up to their table. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a group of people more in need of a good time in my entire life.” Procuring several flyers, he pulls into a deep bow in front of the table. “Mollymauk Tealeaf, of the The Fletching and Moondrop Traveling Carnival of Curiosities.”

This other tiefling eagerly snatches up the papers and distributes them to her party. She, Jester, as she introduces herself, has a cheery demeanor and an interesting accent that rolls around in her mouth. Molly decides he likes her nigh instantaneously as he smilingly glances over the rest of the group.

Among the colorful, assorted company – a strapping half-orc wearing leathers, a tanned human woman in vibrant blue robes, a ragged halfling girl wrapped in bandages – the dingy human man almost stands out, even as he pulls his dirty jacket closer around himself, attempting to blend into the dark tavern wall behind him. His clothes are beyond well-worn, but oddly enough, no care has been put into patching them. In fact, the man displays little care for his own appearance altogether: his hair is dirty and wild,  his beard is poorly trimmed, and his nails are dirty and blunted from what seems to be habitual picking.

He looks everywhere but Molly with stern disinterest as the halfling (halfling? Molly isn’t so sure after he notes her cat-like yellow eyes over her masked mouth) hands him a flyer.

Jester asks him to read her fortune, and Molly turns away without a second thought.

~*~

As patrons swarm the entrance of the massive circus tent, Caleb thinks to himself that this is the most people he’s been around in several months. Even as he falls to the back of the group, there are still people in his face, at his heels. Logically he knows that nobody is looking at him, and yet the fear of being seen – _being recognized_ – crawls up into his throat.

He tugs his dirty scarf higher up on his face, tries to ground himself as his sight tunnels around the edges.

_Eins._

_Zwei._

_Drei._

What was it that Nott told him to do to stop himself from floating away? Find things in his vicinity to look at?

Well, it’s not hard to focus in on Mollymauk, even though the strange tiefling sits barely within his peripheral.

Everything about Mollymauk is visible. His chest, seemingly exposed at all times, reveals a canvas of skin and ink and glitter in places where Caleb isn’t even trying to look. He has a mouthful of fangs and gilded horns and a jacket like a patchwork headache. And he’s _purple_ , for crying out loud.

_Vier._

_Fünf._

_Sechs._

The man wears ‘lurid’ like a statement piece, as if the aptly chosen peacock inked into his skin aggregates the impact from the scars, pale by comparison, rising like thin waves crashing on the plane of his torso.

In the back of his mind, an ugly little voice tells him that people like Mollymauk are tawdry, like knockoff jewelry. Pretty at a glance, but with no real value.

_Sieben._

_Acht._

_Neun._

Nein, that is a jagged thought made piercing by the pressure in his chest. Perhaps he should not be so quick to judge.

He continues to observe.

Molly speaks as he dresses: candidly, as though everything he says could be in earnest. This policy, apparently, includes his lies. Caleb watches as a sickly man takes a seat across from Mollymauk, seeking advice about a cough – _ridiculous, why would a carnival worker be more knowledgeable than a physician?_ – and the tiefling in turn offers him honest advice in exchange for a handful of copper.

It’s a con if Caleb has ever seen one ( _he has, in fact, become an expert on cons_ ), but with a single, glaring flaw.

What sort of conman buys into his own con? What sort of performer puts all his best tricks out for viewing, unfurls his sleeves to display all his secrets?

What sort of man, when caught in his own lie, shrugs it off, like he hasn’t yet decided if the truth is _his_ truth?

Mollymauk is too simple and too eye-catching, and to that extent, Caleb cannot even begin to understand him, though he reads him like a book. They are like opposites: Caleb has been hiding in the dirt and the shadows, trying his best to be unseemly so that nobody looks twice or asks the right things; Mollymauk knows neither the value nor the meaning of modesty, flaunting about to invoke questions that the tiefling will answer, but never confirm.

And like opposites, they find each other much too easily.

_Zehn._

Caleb locks eyes with Mollymauk over the crowd and his consciousness immediately snaps back to his body.

He has philosophized too much, and looks away, as though the moment was merely in passing.

After all, he does not communicate with people, less those that do not make sense.

* * *

 

There is something about Caleb, Molly decides. In the few days they have known each other, Molly has seen something that Caleb is definitely trying to snuff out. He has an air, so to speak, like a distantly burning candle. But, no matter how much he tries to hide out of sight, he manages to make himself seen in the darkness.

Beneath the grim set of his mouth and between the short, unamicable sentences, beats the heart of a man whose sole chosen companion is a goblin with fingers stickier than sap and a voice that not even a mother could love.

Molly watches, intrigued, as Nott yanks down her mask and breathes life back into Caleb. It’s horrifying to watch, which makes it hilarious, and Molly can’t help but wonder, as the man comes shouting back to life and magically lights up his companion with those funny glowing orbs of his, what in Caleb inspired such loving camaraderie out of a goblin.

He wears his rags like armor to protect his heart from something terrible.

Caleb Widogast is a very interesting man, and Molly certainly loves interesting.

~*~

Caleb watches as the tiefling curls his arms protectively around Toya, whispering quietly to the young dwarf as she cries like an injured sparrow. Backlit in the glow of Caleb’s dancing lights, Mollymauk speaks in an impossibly soft tone as he turns away from the party.

His garish coat is dull in the low light, his luxurious hair matted with drying blood, his flashing scimitars sheathed. The mantelpiece is gone and in its place stands just a man.

Perhaps the man is unknowable, hard to look at when he burns brightest, but in that moment, Caleb thinks he recognizes something in this muted Mollymauk.

Perhaps they can get along.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone makes jokes. Enter: the plot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhhh hey im back! it's been a bit, but i'm still kicking. i wrote this whole thing out, had a weird dry spell, and then had a long insecurity spell, but i finally managed to force myself through the final editing process today.
> 
> a big heartfelt thank you to ari, jared, and egg for beta'ing (repeatedly)

“I have a query for you, o illustrious wizard of ours.”

The cart jumps as the horses take them over a stray stone in the path, jostling Caleb like a sack of wheat on its way to market. His fellow harvest grains – an ever-companionable Nott the Brave, a shouldered and purring Frumpkin, one lounging Beauregard, and the illustrious Mollymauk Tealeaf – are similarly tossed, each making a different noise as they landed again. They are all crammed into a single wagon, sitting barely a few feet from each other at best.

“Another one, Mollymauk?” Caleb says, turning to the next page of his book. He’s read it twice already, but has, out of sheer lack of stimulus, taken to corroborating its plot points with those of other, precursory stories in the margins.

The job that they are on is meant to be routine: just a loop around the Empire to deposit contraband into the hands of the Gentleman’s acquaintances. Everything was arranged for them prior to the Nein’s departure from Zadash; two caravans were saddled with horses and handed over to them in the dead of night. Their papers, coin, schedule, and drop locations are all encrypted and safely tucked into the endless space of Jester’s pink satchel. Even their cover story – travelling brewers and a potpourri of guard – was meticulously designed to obfuscate the false bottomed barrels of ale stuffed with banned religious iconography, illicit communiques, and mysterious herbs and dried plants.

There is no way that this mission could go wrong so long as they keep their heads down, and that is, perhaps, why the Mighty Nein are going a little stir crazy.

Beauregard groans and chucks a ball bearing at the tiefling. The metal bounces harmlessly off one of Mollymauk’s bejeweled horns and lands on the floor of the cart with a clack, rolling off into the stack of barrels and equipment loaded into the back of the vehicle. “For the last time, man, he’s not gonna to play truth or dare with you.”

Unaffected by the light assault, Mollymauk shifts on his seat: a majestic cushion of deep red silk and gold trim that has been finely embroidered with the explicit image of an orgy. The tiefling had picked it up in a flea market and refused to leave without it, much to the mixed reactions of dismay, delight, and indecision of the team. Yasha had quietly followed suit, picking a simple blue pillow beaded with small, white flowers. “ _ My favorite part about this, _ ” she had deadpanned, “ _ is the distinct lack of coitus. _ ” 

The transaction totaled out to thirty gold, which Caleb personally found to be an obscene rate for just two pillows, but Mollymauk had waved off the wary stares of the Mighty Nein as he parted with it, stating that thirty gold was a small price to pay for comfort on the road, and that the nonbelievers would just have to learn the hard way. 

After a week and a half of being largely confined to the cart, Caleb’s bruising tailbone is beginning to see the innate value of a seasoned circus worker’s travel choices. 

Well, at least Frumpkin does not mind being used as a neck pillow.

“Don’t worry, Beau. I’m sure you’ve figured out by now that I am a veritable well of curiosity.” Mollymauk inspects his talons, as though looking for some sign of imperfection. Apparently seeing none, he slips his nail file back into the folds of his jacket before turning to Caleb. “How long would it take for you to teach me magic?” 

_ Too long, probably _ , Caleb thinks to himself. 

“Hey! You can’t just  _ learn magic  _ all willy-nilly,” Nott interjects, looking up from her mangled whittling project.  _ It’s going to be a cat _ , she had stated when they set out. As of right now, it looks like a sharpened stick. It bears a keen resemblance to the rest of her whittling projects. “I mean, Caleb is a great teacher, the best there is probably, but that doesn’t mean just anyone can start doing it.”

“Sure, but I figured that, since we’ll be spending the next couple of months on a sponsored road trip across the Empire to drop off shipments of clandestine goods for our generous employer, there’s plenty of time to try.”

It is not that Caleb is unwilling to teach Mollymauk – he is always interested in talking about magic – but rather that he is reluctant to waste anyone’s time, including his own. From what he has gathered over these past few months, Mollymauk is a walking contradiction. He is vain and spends much of his time grooming and “self-care,” but does not hesitate to put coin into the hands of those who need it. He is incredibly brash and throws himself into any interesting conflict that comes his way, yet knows when to pull a person aside and speak gently. He cannot read and therein knows very little but speaks as though the world has poured all its wisdom into him. The idea of knowing Mollymauk as a man is like knowing Mollymauk as a concept to Caleb – there is simply a depth to him that distinctly lacks self-preservation. Or reason. So even though magic is the most interesting thing in the world, there is a high chance that learning magic would become a dreary task within a matter of minutes.

Caleb makes another note in his book before responding. “Nott is right.” From the corner of his eye, he sees her waggle her tongue at Mollymauk, who makes a similarly petulant gesture in return. “Magic is not something you can just pick up. The time investment for even the most minor spells is a tall order and the discipline a taller one because wizardry requires copious study.”

“Okay but how long would it take?” Mollymauk muses. He has shifted from a reclining position to an attentive posture, staring Caleb down as he leans forward, ankles crossed with his hands on his knees.

The eye contact is a lot. Caleb looks anywhere but at him. Nott says he needs to work on making eye contact more, but he’s still on the tails of learning how to hug. “If you work as hard as Nott? Perhaps a few weeks to teach you about the basics of Arcanum,” he mutters. “A couple more to teach you an actual spell. I am worried that the process may bore you.” 

“Eh I really don’t think I could be more bored than I already am.”

“You would sit still through hours-long lecturing about the Weave and its unsteady relationship with mages over history?” Caleb asks skeptically.

“I have no idea what that means, so sure, hypothetically.”

“Do you have any experience with magic at all?”

“Hm. At the expense of sounding like a total dunce –  _ don’t make that face at me, Beau _ – can you define ‘experience with magic’ to me? Because I don’t know if I can do magic the way you do it, but I  _ can _ cut myself on my swords and make them turn into ice, or whatever, and I’ve also got a talented tongue.”

Beauregard and Nott fake-gag in the background, and Caleb plaintively elects to ignore the innuendo. “Ja, well your sword skills are likely divine in nature, so I do not think I can work with that but… how much can you tell me about your bloodline power?”

“Very little. Probably the littlest,” Mollymauk says, obviously pleased that Caleb is considering it now. What could it possibly be like to live in such blissful ignorance, Caleb wonders to himself. What is it like to know nothing about one’s own capabilities? “Think of me less like a resource and more like a lab rat in this scenario.” 

 “Well then I cannot say for certain. I think I would need to extensively research into your racial abilities.” Theoretically, the idea has merit; Mollymauk’s incantations aren’t quite as… methodically laid out as the ones in Caleb’s spell book, but that isn’t to say that he couldn’t manipulate the Weave. He would certainly be interested in trying, at the very least.

Mollymauk nods along eagerly. “I don’t know what half of that meant, but it sounded like a solid maybe to me.”

“I would need to get the right reading material before I give you a ‘solid maybe’. It is a very interesting idea, but it is also one that could take weeks, if not months of research. Blood magic is not a very well-documented art. I do not want to teach you something that I know nothing about.” Caleb says. 

Mollymauk’s face flickers with something, perhaps frustration or disappointment, before the tiefling leans back with a placid expression and heaves a dramatic sigh. “And here I thought I could ease all this spine-tingling under-stimulation by blowing something up before the end of the trip.”

“Caleb just wants an excuse to buy more books,” Beau says pointedly. She isn’t wrong, really. His interest is always easily piqued by the prospect of new reading material. “An explosion would definitely lighten my mood though. My brain is starting to cramp just _ thinking _ about all the nothing we’ll see before this job is done.”

“Does that mean we’re in agreement, Beau?” Molly asks, leaning back against the caravan again.

“Oh god, look at what this mission is doing to us.”

Just as Caleb starts phasing out of the conversation, a blue face pops in from between the front flaps of the cart’s canvas cover. “Do I hear people complaining about being bored? Because I would be super okay switching places with anyone who wants to sit up front with Mr.  _ Stick-In-The-Mud _ here,” she says, raising her voice for emphasis.

“Jester, we can’t play I-Spy when there’s nothing around us but grass and trees,” Fjord says firmly from the outside.

“And rocks, and clouds and occasionally little birdies,  _ Fjord _ .”

Molly stands up and stretching precariously as the moving cart threatens to throw him off balance. “I’ll tag you out, Jester. My tail is starting to cramp because I’m apparently not allowed to let fly free when I’m sitting in the cart.” As if for emphasis, his tail unfurls out from under his coat.

“That’s because you hit Caleb with it when you and Beau were playing ball bearing ping pong,” Nott gripes.

“I like to let bygones be bygones. Besides, Caleb forgives me. Right, Caleb?”

Caleb, who by this point has no real part in the conversation and has retreated back into his book, says something like “Hm? Oh  _ jah _ , of course.” He is vaguely aware of Mollymauk patting his head as the tiefling makes his way to the front flap of the cart, playfully high-fiving Jester as she climbs in.

“ _ Molly~ _ , I am taking your pillow!” Jester sing-songs as she plops herself down across from Caleb onto the cushion. “Nott, you should let me and Beau braid your hair with those shiny beads you just got!”

“Way ahead of you, sister!”

The rest of the wagon ride is loud with the laughter of the girls. Caleb doesn’t look up from his book once, not even when they start to put flowers in his hair.

~*~

“Come on, you two! What, do you not even lift?” Jester shouts. Fjord and Beau groan in unison as they struggle to lift a barrel out of the cart together. 

Molly watches his teammates from a distance away as Jester shakes her own barrel around like she’s showing off. She’s so damn strong for someone so small. Behind them, the sun dips below the tree line of the Curengreen Forest, sending long, stretching shadows across the ground.

“Some of us are made for speed, not strength, Jester,” Beau pants. “I mean look at me. I’m super impressive all over, but my calves are way more defined than my biceps.”

“Okay suuure, and what is Fjord’s excuse?”

“I uh… have sea legs?” Fjord whines as he shifts the weight of the barrel to his knees. There’s a sudden, audible popping sound and Fjord,  _ poor Fjord _ , drops to the ground, clutching his hip.

Boy, Molly sure is glad that’s not him, though his task for the night is decidedly not much better. In less than an hour, night will fall like a heavy blanket, which means he really should be working on setting up the campsite.

Ugh.

Somehow pitching smaller tents always gives him more trouble than raising the massive big top he’d traveled under for two years. In his defense, tiefling horns aren’t exactly optimized for overhead ties and flimsy canvas, and his knot work has never quite been the best. 

It takes Molly the better part of seven minutes to raise something passably tent-like before he calls it. Anyone with an artistic eye could call the unevenly draped canvas rustic, and besides, he has three more to set up. At least this time, he managed to tie down three of the four stakes without messing up the tarp, right?

_ This would’ve been much easier if I knew magic _ , Molly thinks to himself as he dumps the second bag of tent supplies all over the ground. At least, he assumes this would be easier if he knew magic. After all, Caleb makes spellcasting look so easy that Molly can’t help but be interested. Then again, maybe the man can tell that Molly is kind of just using this an excuse to get closer to him.

It’s not Molly’s fault that they still barely know each other.

“Molly, you’re moping again,” Yasha says as she approaches, one large barrel of ale slung over each shoulder. It’s endearing in that imposing Yasha way.

“What are you, a psychic?” Molly says, grinding a stake into the ground with the heel of his hand. “I thought I was supposed to be the soothsayer here.”

“Between the two of us, you are still the only one who can divine the future from tarot cards, tea leaves, or palms.”

“What about smoke shapes? Have you figured out how to read those yet?” 

“No. Just you.”

“Somehow, that’s more concerning.”

Yasha huffs a laugh. “Is it because you can’t get Caleb to pay attention to you?”

Molly opens his mouth before closing it again. “Aren’t you tired of holding those barrels up? That must be exhausting.”

One by one, the barrels come down with a soft thud as Yasha lowers them to the ground. Then she leans crosses her arms and raises a single eyebrow, which is code for ‘ _ Molly, I’m being friendly but serious. _ ’ 

Grimacing, Molly leans over to look past Yasha’s looming form. Beau and Jester are still by the cart leaning over Fjord, who is curled on the ground groaning about a his hip being out of place. Caleb and Nott, who wandered off into the woods to get firewood together after offloading, are still nowhere to be seen. Nobody is within earshot, but that doesn’t make him more compelled to have this conversation. “When you say it like that, it sounds like I have some sort of emotional attachment to this whole situation,” he mutters lowly.

“Don’t you? He seems to be the only person in the group that you can’t phase, which I would imagine bothers you.”

“I wouldn’t say it like  _ that _ either,” Molly mutters with a frown. “I just know that he’s interesting like the rest of them under all that grime, but I don’t know how and it’s starting to drive me crazy because I want to. Obviously, I won’t make him bare his soul to me in a quiet, private place – that’s just not the business I’m in,” he says, gesturing to his audacious garb. “But as someone who’s built a personal image on annoying people into telling me things about themselves, it hurts my pride a little bit that he won’t look my way at all. I wouldn’t call that caring.”

“You’re sending mixed signals, Mollymauk. Do you want to get to know him or not?”

“Get to know him like  _ get to know him _ ?” His jewelry jingles as he offers a brief body roll by way of explanation. “Probably not. But it’d be nice to feel familiar with the guy. I want get along with Caleb the way I get along with everyone else in the Mighty Nein.”

The answer seemed to satisfy Yasha, and her stance relaxes slightly. “The way you ‘got along’ with Nott back at the pub a few weeks ago when-?”

Mollymauk holds up his hands to stop her before they flashback to the barfight. At least the vodka had taken the stench out. “Woah woah, okay time out. I know we’re having a tender friendship moment, but I’m not about to be lectured by you about poor communication skills, Yasha.”

She smiles at him, fondness touching the corners of her eyes. “Maybe not, but my poor communication skills think that Caleb may just be shy. Or reserved.”

“Great well if he’s even half as shy or reserved as you were when the carnival found you, then I’m sure I’ll get a real sentence out of him in another three months. I want to talk to him  _ now _ .”

“I heard from outside. He didn’t sound opposed to your idea.”

“I mean, yeah, but he didn’t agree to it, so I’m kind of out of ideas. What’s more interesting to a nerdy mage than learning more stuff about magic?”

In the space intended for a reply, a few things happen all at once:

  1. Yasha shrugs.
  2. Beau tries to hold Fjord upright while Jester wiggles her fingers and shouts “IT’S _ALIVE_!” while casting a healing spell.
  3. There is a loud, resounding snap from the low forest canopy and a small creature falls shrieking out of a tree a couple dozen feet away from the campsite.



Before it even hits the ground, every single nearby member of the Mighty Nein has their weapons drawn, and Yasha is already halfway across the clearing. She snatches it up before it can even roll over onto its feet.

“No! Put me down! Let me _ go!”  _ yells the little bundle of humanoid as Yasha turns around, hoisting it aloft like she’s holding a kitten.

“I found a little human girl,” Yasha states, holding the writhing mass of limbs away from her. She doesn’t even flinch as the child, a grunting whirlwind of wild red hair and attitude, tries to kick her stomach, but Molly gives the kid kudos for trying.

“If I’m being honest, she probably found us,” Fjord says. He doesn’t cut as imposing of a figure as usual as he hobbles over on Beau’s arm with Jester still healing his hip, but he does his best. They converge in front of their guest with Molly, who’s abandoned his tent-raising for this. “What’re you doing out here in the middle of the woods, little miss? You lost?”

“People don’t just get lost up a tree, Fjord,” Beau points out, toeing a thick, broken branch on the ground. “And people especially don’t get lost twenty feet up a tree out in the middle of nowhere. You spying on us, kid?”

The girl makes one last swipe at Yasha before finally falling limp in her grasp, sweating and panting from exertion. Up close, there’s a roundness in her ruddy cheeks that speaks of youth and there is a sharpness to the set of her brow that is both wild and intelligent. Her tanned and freckled face is framed by a mane of frizzy red hair that not even that messy attempt at a ponytail has stopped from spilling out over her shoulders. Narrowing her eyes, she looks between the five of them before speaking. “Why would I spy on a bunch of strangers? I was hiding up there, obviously.”

Beau narrows her eyes suspiciously, but only Fjord speaks. “Hiding from what, exactly?”

“Well, you lot, duh.” The little girl swings her leg out at Yasha again, but her foot just grazes off the fur of Yasha’s robe. Once she has stilled, she pouts. “Mum always says to watch out for strangers. Especially scary ones with swords,” she grumbles.

“Oh my mama used to say that too!” Jester pipes up. She stops healing Fjord and puffs her chest out in a matronly manner, wagging her finger. “She would always tell me: ‘Jester, definitely do not make any big people with swords angry.’ What is your name? How old are you? Where are you from?”

Shaking her hair out of her eyes, the girl seems visibly less afraid in this scenario than she should be, in Molly’s opinion. In fact, she looks irate, if anything. She doesn’t feel like a random child from a nearby village, despite her ragged cloak and plain tunic-over-leggings ensemble. “I’m not telling you!” she says loudly. “You’re blue and also I don’t even know you.”

“Come on! I may be blue, but look,” she points at Molly. “He is purple! We are friendly, I promise! You look like you’re super young. Like, seven years old or something. Shouldn’t you want to make friends with friendly people?”

“I’m nine, actually, and nothing about this is very friendly.”

Molly decides he likes this girl.

Fjord slowly massages the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Oh for crying out loud… a nine year-old girl? Yasha, you can put her down. As articulate as she may be, she’s clearly not a threat.”

Beau cuts in as the lass starts to puff up with an obviously offended look on her face. “I don’t know, Fjord. Kids can be pretty brutal – especially smart little girls. I mean, if you think I’m bad now, you should’ve seen me when I was nine and trying to dodge my nursemaid every day. Poor lady never knew what hit her.” She sighs, but it definitely sounds more like she’s reminiscing rather than regretting. Jester vigorously nods along with a hum of agreement. 

Fjord exhales slowly, but seems to get her meaning. Molly swears he hears the man grumble something like ‘- _just no good with kids but alright_ ’ before saying “Okay we’ll treat her like an adult then. Little miss, Yasha will put you down IF you tell us about yourself.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Well then, uh-”

“ _ WHERE ARE THEY?" _  Nott screeches as she explodes from the nearby brush practically foaming at the mouth. She brandishes her hand crossbow, precariously loaded and waving about wildly, in one hand and a small bundle of twigs and tinder in the other. “ _ LET ME AT ‘EM. _ ”

Caleb stumbles out behind her, panting from what was clearly a vigorous jog. “We heard yelling, is everyone alright? What is happening?”

“Oh yeah, guys, everything is totally fine!” Jester says. “Look, guys, we found a- ”

The little girl cuts Jester off with a genuine scream of “ _ THAT’S A GOBLIN! _ ” as she recoils towards Yasha.

Nott immediately turns her weapon on the kid, and shrieks back. “ _ THAT’S A HUMAN GIRL! WHAT’S SHE DOING HERE? SHOULD I SHOOT HER?" _

“No! No. Both of you calm down right now.” Fjord tries to gently push Nott’s crossbow down with the blade of his falchion, but that only makes Nott jerkily point it at him. Exasperated, he throws his hands up and says “ _Why me,_ ” up into the sky. Poor guy. Molly holds down a snicker as Fjord regains his composure. “Let’s just try this another way. Young lady, this is Nott the Brave. She may be goblin, but she’s also one of our party members. We are a travelling band of adventurers known as The Mighty Nein.”

“…Did you know that you’re all crazy?” the girl asks, her voice wavering as she looks at Nott.

Fjord looks at the rest of them pleadingly, and Molly, finally deciding to take pity on him, pipes up.

 “Oh trust me, we know,” he says, sheathing his blades. She watches the gesture with a well-deserved look of distrust, but Molly continues summoning energy behind his smile as he begins to force his will upon her with magic. “You seem a little crazy yourself, though, so maybe we can just be friends. Won’t you tell us a bit about yourself, darling?” 

The girl’ blinks once, twice, and then looks at Molly with a curious tilt of her head as his voice oozes arcane power. “What are you doing?”

Molly smiles and offers her an earnest shrug. “I cast a spell on you to make you cooperate with us. If that bothers you, I can drop it and we can have this conversation regularly.”

She hesitates and then looks him over with great interest. “No, that’s okay. It didn’t work anyways.” And in that moment, the magic fizzles out, failing to take effect on her. Molly raises his eyebrows, interested. Clearly, she isn’t an average child. “My name’s Leonie. How come you’re purple?”

“ _ Wha-a-a-a-a-t!" _ Jester grabs Molly by the sleeve of his coat. “You mean the only thing you had to do to get her to like you was cast magic on her?” 

“Guess so!” He beams at the group, who have mixed reactions to his success, before turning back to the girl, Leonie. “I’m purple because I was born on a distant desert isle populated entirely by purple humanoids who only ate purple food.”

She frowns. “Don’t patronize me.”

“Sure thing. Where are you from, Miss Leonie?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all your support on the last chapter! comments, kudos, and bookmarks are all much appreciated <3
> 
> if you want to know where i am in the writing process (or if you'd like to fight me in a Denny's parking lot), follow me on twitter @alchamess!

**Author's Note:**

> what is it that youtubers say? like, comment, and subscribe?
> 
> catch me on twitter @alchamess


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